Hollow Art
by Croutonic Sarcasm
Summary: She was art, and should be revered as such, though others may not feel the same. He would keep her for eternity, as long as he could still feel the chakra running through his heart... Slightly dark, Sasori, Konan, and Pein


_Author's Note: So, here's a story that's been bugging me for a while. I don't think I did it too well, but I am still proud of it, odd as it sounds. ^^ Please, I would LOVE reviews and critiques. But no cruel comments, just constructive ideas, please. Thank you!_

_Naruto is not mine, nor is Konan or Pein or any other character within the manga or anime. Naruto the anime is copyright of Masashi Kishimoto and kudos to him for making such a cool manga._

**Hollow Art**

Her skin was the color of porcelain, finely made and exquisitely formed. Her cheekbones were of equal proportion, no one side demanding more attention than the other. Her emerald eyes were shining from the small candle on the small vanity, dainty and delicate like herself. Her cerulean hair was full of body and volume, beautiful to see and soft to the touch. But nobody would touch her, that was assured.

Her face, though beautiful to behold, lacked something, a certain figment of the light perhaps. She had just washed and was without any make-up. The missing cosmetics could be the reason, or perhaps just the wavering light of the single candle. She reached in the top right drawer of the pale blue vanity, pulling out another snow white candle. A movement later, a match was produced from the same drawer. She grasped it lightly between her fragile-looking hands, then struck the wooden match upon the rough casing of the matchbox.

The fire flared into life, then retracted into a gleam in the darkness of the room. The light shone in her eyes, making reflections of fire and hiding the green of her hues. The match was set to the new candlewick carefully, then the candle was set to her left. The orange flame wriggled on the wick in a dance, then settled down like its twin across the vanity, separated by cosmetics and the mirror. Her hand shook to put out the flame of the small match, then dropped the spent fire in the small bowl on the blue surface.

The mirror was large and oval, showing just the top of her breasts to over her head with quite some room to spare. It was ornamental, a beautiful creation just for her. It had been made with the most loving care in hopes that she would one day use it and cherish it, and she had accepted it. He was pleased.

She stood and turned to the dresser nearby, grasping the small iron rings on the drawer and pulled. Clothing was revealed as the light invaded the darkness and drove it back. Her pale hands reached inside and pulled out a revealing black shirt. Its collar dipped between her breasts and showed her ample cleavage when she put it on. Her similarly colored pants were tight without restricting her movement. She sat down in front of the vanity once more.

Cosmetics littered the wooden surface and reflected dully in the pale light of the candles. She hesitated, then reached forward and picked up a hair brush. Her hair was wet, making it seem thinner than it truly was. The blue strands just needed to dry, and the best way to have nice hair is to brush it as it dries. It would take time, but that was fine. There was all the time in the world.

As she brushed, she ran her free hand through the soft hair, letting it fall from her fingers softly, drying it with the small movements. She took her time, running the brush through the blue hair again and again until it was perfectly dry and smooth as silk. Then, and only then, did she put the brush down carefully, turning to the cosmetics. What color to wear today...?

She reached forward and grasped a small jar of foundation. It was needed before any true color could be added. She picked up the largest brush from the surface, then opened the jar, careful to hold it steadily and not spill any powder. It would be a bother to get a new pot, and this was her last. She dipped the bristles of the brush into the powder, tapped the handle on the edge to shake off the loosest of the powder, then brought it to her face. She moved meticulously, coating each section of her face without adding too much. First, the forehead. The brush moved in great swipes, getting the powder upon her face, then moved more slowly to get it where it was needed. She repeated this process on her cheeks, below her eyes, and her chin. When she finished, her skin looked flawless. She set the brush down after dislodging any remaining foundation from the brush, then screwed the jar closed, setting it aside.

Her hands moved forward once more to grab a small pot of blush and a smaller brush. This brush was about the width around of her thumb rather than twice that, like the foundation brush. She unscrewed the lid more carefully; this one was colored a pale rose and would be very obvious on her clothing should control be lost. She applied this powder on her cheeks, highlighting her features with just a dash of red.

Noises sounded in the background, but no mind was paid to them. There was speaking of various persons, some low voices and some higher, but all male. The voices raised, and one of the deeper voices sounded worried, but soon quieted. Steps were heard out the door, but they quickly faded. A owl hooted near the window and control wavered, the powder nearly slipping from her hands, but was caught at the last moment. A disaster was averted, and she set the now closed pot down once more along with the smaller brush.

Hesitation. Cause for pause as sounds got louder outside the door, words of fear and worry. She did not move, her hands on her lap, looking almost in disarray. It was quickly fixed with a movement, her hands folding on her lap delicately. The sounds faded again. The first candle had begun to waver, the once tall candle bowed with age. Attention was turned to the more pressing matter. She opened the second drawer on the right of the vanity, pulling out a candle snuffer. She placed the bell-shaped object over the candle firmly for a moment, then pulled it off and set the silver snuffer back in its place. Smoke rose from the snuffed candle, the wick still hot and the wax pooled in a rapidly congealing mass near the base.

She stood and picked the candle up, hooking her index finger in the candle holder and her thumb held the holder still so it would not fall and spill the still warm wax on her clothing. She set it upon the dresser, next to origami paper flowers the color of innocence. She reached for once and put it on her left side in her hair carefully. A moment later, it stayed on its own, the clip invisible to the eye. She walked over to the closet and opened it, pausing, then reaching forward and pulling down a black cloak. The cloak had a high collar –it would reach to her chin– and white-rimmed red clouds. Her soft hands undid the buttons, then slid her arms into the sleeves, pulling the robes on herself and covering her revealing shirt. Her body was fit for one man's eyes only, and he did not want others to see her. They would desire her for their own, and he did not want to lose her to another. But he had little to fear of that. She re-buttoned the clasps, then turned back the vanity. A shadow stood in the corner of the room, but she ignored it. It was unimportant.

She returned to the plush seat of the vanity, situating herself in the middle of the mirror. She looked beautiful, stunning. Unworthy of any but him, and he would fight to keep it so. She picked up a thin tube, turned it, and applied the red to her lips, darkening them to a beautiful, alluring pink, then set it down. She reached for yet another pot of cosmetics and a brush, though this one was much smaller. The brush bristles were as large as her smallest finger's fingernail. This was eyeshadow. Purple today, a lovely amethyst. Yes, he would like that. The brush lowered in the light powder, a small poof of violet rising into the air to settled in the pot again, the loose particles dancing in the light of the candle, revealing a flash of blue. A second later and the sight was gone. A flick of the fingers, and the color was applied to her right eye. Another movement, and her left eyelid was colored as well, both perfectly even and the same light hue.

The voices outside the door got loud again, but it was ignored. This was an art, and must be done correctly. The doll must be presentable, a flawless porcelain figurine to last through the ages. He would keep her and he would treasure his china doll. The voices did not fade, however, but rather intensified. He worried for her safety, and moved to stand behind her. She did not turn, staring into the mirror. He faced the door, ready to move to protect his precious doll.

The door burst open violently, slamming into the drywall behind. The orange-haired man stood there, his piercings gleaming dully in the pale light given off by the candles. He shook, hand still on the open door, but from anger or some other emotion was unknown. His grey eyes took in the scene, then finally spoke. "Shinra tensei!" He said, voice low and heavy.

Her guardian flew backwards, control broken in the might of the pierced man's anger. He flew into the wall at a speed and velocity that would kill an average man. But he was not average. He was art, and art lasts forever. The orange-haired man let out a howl of rage and grief, a black staff appearing from his cloak to stab the other male through the heart, pinning him to the wall. He did not move, was unable to move. His doll would be broken, she would not last through the ages as he hoped, would not be true art. Indeed, he would not be true art, he realized, as his life faded from the pierced heart.

Through this exchange, she did not turn, nor did she move at all. Her hands had fallen in disarray, the pot of lavender spilling to the floor in a slow trickle. The brush slipped from her unmoving hands to fall to the floor with a gentle clatter, the little powder left on the brush making a purple stain on the hardwood floor.

The orange-haired man stepped forward, unable to believe his eyes. No, it could not be...It could not be! A tear fell from the man's grey hues, caught on a piercing, then gathered itself in a rush of inertia to fall to his chin. It quivered there in indecision, then fell to the floor, darkening the powder it fell into, making lavender a deep violet. He reached forward, face a mask of pain, to turn the chair carefully. It spun easily, and he saw her.

Her face was indeed porcelain pale, her eyes emerald green, lips rosy red, her cheeks highlighted just right with a dash of scarlet. But her face was too pale, her eyes too shining, face too still. He saw an imperfection, something her guardian had been unable to solve and thus considered a necessary flaw that did not detract from her beauty. A thin line stretched across her cheek, from below her earlobe to the side of her mouth. It extended from the other side of her full lips to the other earlobe. The orange-haired man dropped to his knees before the doll, holding her hands in his own, her small, dainty hands enveloped in his own.

"No...Oh, Konan..." He cried. "Oh...Konan...." He reached up to bury his face in her sweet-smelling hair, but it was too soft, treated with things he had no knowledge of. It would stay silky forever, but it was unnatural. Her face would forever be cold, she would forever be still, but she would not turn to dust. She would last through the ages. Where he once had a origami angel, he now had a porcelain doll.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look, holding his angel in his arms. He had seen himself in the mirror. Her guardian was pinned to the wall, flown into it with such force that there was a dent in the wall, the staff through his heart like a spear, reflected backwards in the silver of the looking glass. The orange-haired man was there, as was the blue-haired woman. He held her to his chest, but she did not move, his arms were the only things keeping her there. Should he release her, she would slide to the floor in grace unmatched by any, even now.

Reflected in the mirror's foreground, what had caught his eye, was the man and the woman themselves. He saw a god clutching a fallen angel, one who had been brought down to the order of common mortals by an imp, trickery and manipulation this imp's forte. The angel would be an angel no more, sullied as she was by the imp. Her wings would never be as white, her smile never as sweet. The god had lost his angel, his only angel, and try as he might, he could not get her back.

He was left with a hollow in his heart, as hollow as the imp, and as hollow as the porcelain doll he held. Without a doubt, he would not harm her, he would protect this precious being. The imp's art would last, and his life fulfilled. For the imp had filled his heart with the beauty of the fallen angel, and he had ceased to exist with images of his doll dancing in his mind. The god was imperfect, but he would keep the perfect doll. She would have a new guardian, for all true art deserves to be forever.


End file.
